


The Great Escape

by morioriohno



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hemophobia, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, I DO NOT HATE HUBERT OR EDIE I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, Kidnapping, M/M, Poison, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Running Away, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Villain Hubert von Vestra, bad guy by billie eilish playing in the background, hubert is incredibly easy to turn into a villain, i love making lin cry, in which lin may or may not be pining for caspar but is far too traumatized to realize it, no beta we die like Glenn, there's a fucking hemophobia tag specific for homestuck fuck everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23106931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morioriohno/pseuds/morioriohno
Summary: “Linhardt,” Caspar says, and the hardened look in his eyes makes Linhardt’s words die on his tongue. “I don’t care what you say, trying to trash-talk yourself or blame yourself for whatever happens to us from here on out. I came here with you because—well, you did kind of kidnap me, but not the point since I totally could’a left if I felt like it. I stayed ‘cause we’re friends and I trust you, so I punched him because he lied about you being a coward, because I think it takes courage to run away from something you think you can’t run away from.”or: Linhardt finds his courage.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 164





	The Great Escape

“How far will this get us? You can just keep the bag, it’s easier.”

“One, ten, hundred...” The cart driver’s eyes practically bulge out of their sockets and he mutters the goddess’s name under his breath. “Sothis above. Wherever you need, I’ll take you, sir.”

“Excellent. Garreg Mach Monastery please, and step on it. Back roads only.”

“You got it—“

“And _nobody_ finds out that we were here.” Linhardt isn’t usually one for threats, but given the situation, he finds himself twisting a ball of flame in his free hand. “I’ll know,” he warns, though realistically, he probably won’t. Doesn’t hurt to be careful, though.

“O-of course. Let me get your bags, you handle your buddy here.”

“Thank you.”

Caspar stirs from his spot on the horse, looking, for once, more confused and tired than Linhardt ever has. “Lin?” he mutters, voice groggy. “Where are we?... Where, where’s Edel—“

“Come on, you big brute,” Linhardt smoothly interrupts, helping Caspar down and carefully walking him back to the carriage. He doesn’t feel that guilty about lying to Caspar. In fact, it’s not technically lying if he doesn’t answer the question. 

“Wha...wha happen’d?”

“You got hurt.”

That seems to be enough explanation for the man, and he blindly lets Linhardt lead him to one of the seats. He passes out almost immediately upon sitting down, which is concerning, so Linhardt sits next to him and runs another pass of a healing spell over the nasty mess of blood on Caspar’s temple. By the time he’s satisfied that Caspar won’t bleed out, the carriage has begun to move, and Linhardt suddenly feels more sick than he’s felt in a while. He sits there silently for hours, alternating between healing Caspar’s wounds and allowing his magic to regenerate. If only he could heal himself, maybe he could get rid of the aching wound on his back or this pounding in his head, but he can’t, so he’ll have to make do.

He can’t sleep.

Linhardt exhales sharply under his breath, his eyes fixated on the rolling fields outside the carriage window. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more paranoid in his life—and by extension, he’s probably never been this _awake_ , either. Every time his eyes close, he worries that he’s going to miss something important, something deadly. A burst of flame igniting the carriage, the thunder of cavalry in hot pursuit, the whoosh of an arrow as it flies through the window and renders him dead on impact. Or worse, the arrow hitting _Caspar_ before Linhardt can stop it. This paranoia, it’s not the greatest feeling, but he can’t afford _not_ to be paranoid right now. Linhardt decides that, once they’re both safe, he’s not going to let himself feel like this again. A good, long nap sounds amazing right now, and he can’t wait until he can take one in peace.

“—gh? Owww. Lin...” 

Caspar’s faint voice grabs Linhardt’s attention for the shortest of moments—that is, until Linhardt looks over and sees the blood seeping through Caspar’s hand over his chest plate. Linhardt fixates on the wound immediately. Crap.

“Ughhhhh. Opened up _again_ ,” Caspar whines, head rolled back in something between annoyance and exhaustion.

Linhardt gives himself a moment to compose himself at the sight of Caspar’s newly opened injury, then turns in his seat and approaches Caspar, fingers already glowing with a healing spell. Linhardt says nothing, just stitches the wound together by instinct, only really looking at it out of the corner of his eye.

“So what happened out there?” Caspar‘s tone isn’t really accusatory, which probably means that Caspar still has no idea what happened. He’s getting his energy back, at least. “Last thing I remember was jumping in front of Bernadetta, there... Ah, man, was it an arrow?”

“A _poisoned_ arrow, followed by a mace to the head,” Linhardt mutters back bitterly. Caspar’s hand immediately flies to his forehead, leaving a bloody handprint that Linhardt has to try extra hard not to look at. 

“Poison?”

Linhardt nods. “You’re going to feel sick for a few days. Nausea, dizziness, loss of strength.”

“Oh, whoa. No wonder I’ve got such a hell of a migraine then.” He doesn’t sound like it.

“You’re not the only one with a migraine right now, I assure you.”

“Hehe, yeah, I probably make you work twice as hard as any other healer in the Empire. Thanks a million, man, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Caspar flashes him a pained, genuine smile, and apparently that’s what it takes for Linhardt to snap.

“I kidnapped you,” Linhardt mutters.

“...Uh, what?”

“We’re not going back to the Empire. We’re going back to the monastery, we’re meeting back up with the Blue Lions for the Millenium Festival, and we’re going to stay with the Professor.”

Caspar only seems to process part of that—which part, Linhardt doesn’t care. All he knows is that one second, Caspar is confused, and the next, he is wide awake and sitting upright and he is _angry_. “Wait, so, we’re just going to _abandon_ everyone?! Our friends? What about our fami—“

“Caspar, you were dead for forty-two seconds.” That manages to stun the idiot into silence. Linhardt has to resist the absurdly foreign urge to scream in frustration, so he settles for keeping his voice low and angry instead, because how else can he convey to Caspar that he was counting those seconds, praying that each new second wouldn’t be the last? “You—you didn’t have a pulse, and you weren’t moving, and I had to use _thunder_ magic to start your heart again, I wasn’t even sure if it would work but of course I had to try. I don’t care how many people I screwed over by warping us away, because watching you die would _not_ have been worth it. And Edelgard knows I don’t like battle, but she keeps making me fight, and I have to watch as she sends you into a war zone and I can barely do anything and it’s so much work just to keep my friends alive but this isn’t the kind of work I can avoid, avoid doing—”

Linhardt gasps for breath. Somewhere along the line in there, he’d forgotten to do that.

“Lin!” Caspar’s face is contorted in worry now as he puts his hands on Linhardt’s shoulders and holds him tightly. “Breathe, man.”

Linhardt curls up against Caspar’s chest without another word, carefully avoiding his wound. Even injured, Caspar’s grip on him is as sturdy and warm as ever...only now Linhardt can’t stop thinking about how Caspar had been dead and cold a few days ago, which only makes him feel worse. He’s so fucking _frustrated._ He’d never felt this frustrated about anything before, but it had just gotten to be too much, and so he had left, and taken the only thing he really cared about in the Empire with him.

He wants to fall asleep, but he can’t even force himself to close his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry I scared you like that,” Caspar whispers, squeezing him just a little tighter. “And I’m sorry I yelled.”

At this point, all Linhardt can muster is a mumble. “S’ok.”

“No, it’s—it’s just that you're—well, you're— _gah.”_ Caspar gives up on what he was trying to say, starts again. “I feel kind of the same—about Edelgard making you fight, I mean. And she sends me way out ahead of everyone, which sucks because then I can’t make sure you’re okay. I just...” He falls silent.

Linhardt feels a little better now that he’s heard the guilt in Caspar’s tone—though, in wartime, he supposes, better is very, _very_ subjective. He untangles himself from Caspar and focuses his waning magic energy on patching up the gaping arrow wound. 

“I’m not going back,” Linhardt says after what feels like forever. His voice is raw. “I—I don’t care if I regret it later, or if I have to fight once we get to the monastery, I just can’t stay in Enbarr. I can’t—I _won’t_.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s probably for the best, anyway,” Caspar says offhandedly, casting his gaze out the window. 

His comment catches Linhardt by surprise. “How so?”

“To be honest, I was kind of considering kidnapping you too? Just running away, punching you in the face and carrying you over my shoulder like a green sack of potatoes.” A silly snort escapes Caspar’s lips at the image, but his smile quickly falls away. “I... I don’t like seeing what this does to you. You’re not supposed to be a conqueror, out there fighting, you should be studying something complicated in a messy library somewhere.”

Linhardt hums. If only. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah. I don’t like seeing you like this.” Caspar gestures vaguely to all of Linhardt, which tells Linhardt nothing.

“...Like what?”

Caspar gives him a funny look. “...Lin, do you not realize what you look like right now? You’re—hang on.”

Caspar grabs one of the few clean corners of his tunic, rips it off, pours out half his flagon of water onto it and starts dragging it kind of roughly over Linhardt’s hands and face. The rag comes back red, but not fresh red—the dried, browning red of blood that has been there for a while. Oh. Oh, he supposes he must have gotten covered in blood in the process of escaping the battlefield and fixing Caspar. Now that he thinks about it, the scent is nauseating.

Maybe that’s why he can’t sleep.

Linhardt closes his eyes and tries his damndest not to think about the blood as Caspar cleans him off. After a minute, Caspar leans back, seemingly satisfied with his work, and towels off his own face. “There. All better.”

“Thank you. So...you’re okay?” Linhardt asks. “With being here, I mean.”

“Well, I’m not going back without you.” Caspar shoots him a knowing look. “And you’re not going back, right?”

The beginnings of a smile grace Linhardt’s face. “No.”

“Well then.” Caspar leans back, eyes closed. “Nothing to worry about.”

***

They are wrong. There is plenty to worry about as Linhardt paces the length of his room three days later, waiting for Caspar to come back, to explain why he made Linhardt wait here and stormed off in a huff. They’ve only been at the monastery for an hour, and already things are falling apart.

“Alright! I handled it.”

Linhardt looks up from the carpet as Caspar triumphantly charges into his room and pushes the door shut behind him. His eyes are immediately drawn to the dark bruise forming under Caspar’s right eye—but it’s in a stark contrast to the look of victory on the warrior’s face, so Linhardt isn’t entirely sure what to feel. 

Apparently, Linhardt’s glare is enough to get the question across. “...Okay, so maybe I could have handled it _better_ , but it’s fine! We can stay, Byleth and I convinced him.”

“How? I doubt the two of you sat down for a cup of tea.”

Caspar shrugs with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, y’know. He called you a coward and a traitor, I punched him in the face, he punched _me_ in the face, Byleth held him back and did their magic ’Get Along’ dance or whatever so we’re all good.”

Linhardt breathes a sigh of something between annoyance, embarrassment and relief, and, unsure of what to do, allows himself to flop back on his bed. “Goddess, what a mess. I honestly thought he was going to kill us when we arrived.”

“I mean, you’ve seen what he turned into. Considering we’re both from the Empire? He probably was.”

“Mm.” Linhardt gestures for Caspar to sit in the chair beside the bed, and Caspar does, like they’ve both done so many times before. As he sits up and casts a simple healing spell over Caspar’s battered face, he says, “I do wish you hadn’t chosen to fight Dimitri—”

Caspar makes a whining noise in the back of his throat that erupts into a full-on groan. “You’re such a buzzkill, Lin! Believe me, I can totally take him—no, _seriously_ ,” he adds at Linhardt’s scoff. “I can just use what you taught me about fighting tall people, aim for the knees!”

“It’s true that, given the proper preparation and circumstances, I’m confident that you could stand at least a decent chance of landing a few good hits on the Boar Prince: but that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then what _did_ you mean?”

“I meant that you shouldn't let his words get the best of your emotions like that.”

The grin on Caspar’s face fades a little bit. “Well,” he says, and Linhardt can hear how he’s straining to sound chill, like it’s no big deal, when clearly it’s quite a big deal. “I wasn’t just going to let him be an asshole to you.” The facade fades quickly. “Especially lying about you—I _hate_ lying, and the stuff he said, it just pissed me off—“

“But he wasn’t lying.”

“Yes, he was!” Caspar’s not smiling anymore, which is upsetting. Linhardt hopes that he didn’t do something wrong. “You’re not a coward, and you’re not a traitor.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I fit the exact dictionary definition of both.”

“No. Shut up. Who cares what the words mean, ‘exactly’? I know what a traitor is, and I know you’re not one. And you’re not a coward either!”

“Caspar, I ran away from Enbarr. I ran away from fighting a _war_.” Linhardt exhales softly, pulling his hands back as the mark on Caspar’s skin fades away. “It was a cowardly thing to do, and at this point, I think I can safely say the Empire would regard me as a traitor for doing it. What other answer is there?”

“Linhardt,” Caspar says, and the hardened look in his eyes makes Linhardt’s words die on his tongue. “I don’t care what you say, trying to trash-talk yourself or blame yourself for whatever happens to us from here on out. I came here with you because—well, you did kind of kidnap me, but not the point since I _totally_ could’a left if I felt like it. I stayed ‘cause we’re friends and I trust you, so I punched him because he lied about you being a coward, because I think it takes courage to run away from something you think you can’t run away from.”

It always shocks Linhardt when Caspar is able to so fundamentally change the way he sees the world with just a sentence.

A little giggle escapes Linhardt, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to hide it, but Caspar has already heard it and is staring at him funny. 

“O...kay,” Caspar mutters. “I said something pretty serious, and you laugh? Jeez, man, it’s not a joke.”

“No, I, I don’t think you’re joking,” Linhardt says with a smile. “I just think I’m lucky to have a friend like you. Not many people can convince me to bypass the dictionary.”

Caspar snorts out a laugh and throws his arms around Linhardt’s torso, crushing him into a hug that somehow feels more comfortable than any bed Linhardt has ever slept in. He’s still shorter than Linhardt, but not by much, and his face is buried in Linhardt’s sternum.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he mumbles, the soft rumble of his voice sending shivers through Linhardt’s body. Huh. He can unpack that later. “We’ve got each others’ backs, and Dimitri and the others will come around. And whatever side we wind up on, we’ll still be together. Okay, Lin?”

Linhardt swallows, hating how good Caspar is at getting to the point. They’re here, but somehow, Linhardt can’t find it in himself to feel like they’re still safe.

Maybe, with Caspar here, he’ll be safe for real.

After a moment, Linhardt returns the hug with considerably more energy than he expected himself to.

“Yeah,” he mutters into Caspar’s shoulder. “Okay.”

***

They’re surrounding him.

He probably should have noticed it sooner. Tactics are his specialty, after all, he should have noticed that the cavalry soldiers were slowly pushing him back, keeping him on the defensive, but he was too busy patching up Caspar and Dimitri as they rushed forward blindly. Keeping Dimitri alive, as Linhardt has learned, is almost as much of a full time job as Caspar is. It’s also a lot harder to keep his focus on Dimitri, as the man is more feral beast than man and constantly causes a bloody massacre wherever he goes. The Empire is right to fear him.

This was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission. How were they supposed to know that the Empire would be this close to the monastery? 

Annette yells his name and he sends a burst of wind magic through an assassin that would have skewered her, just as she casts Thoron past him and decimates the armored knight behind him. He can’t help but feel pleased at their synced timing, but the smile is quickly forced off his face as Dimitri takes a lance to the shoulder and Linhardt has to expend a precious spell to fix him up—and then enemies are attacking him and Annette has disappeared on the other side of enemy lines and he doesn’t have a second to think about anything but staying alive.

He finally realizes it when a cavalier manages to push him back to the edge of the forest. His battalion has long since perished or fled, so he’s on his own—and yet, the enemies have kept coming, in far greater numbers than he’s used to dealing with solo. As a result, he’s been stumbling back, retreating, slowly led away from the monastery. He wasn’t concerned before. He’s always had a good magic range and a decent chance against most fighters, so that’s not what makes him see what’s happening.

The problem?

He can’t see Caspar anymore. That head of blue hair has always been a beacon, a source of comfort and safety. A symbol that there’s a lifeline in case something goes horribly wrong.

And it’s not there.

Linhardt’s stomach sinks as he realizes that there are at least a dozen soldiers surrounding him, all wearing Empire colors. They look to be strong, too. Too many for him to successfully beat on his own, and no blue backup in sight. This definitely classifies as something going horribly wrong.

Is he going to die here?

No. No, that’s stupid to think about, he’s not going to die here. Not alone. Not on a stupid scouting mission. He has things he wants to achieve, and he can’t exactly do them from the grave. Besides, the Professor, Caspar, someone will soon notice he’s been separated from the herd, and they’ll save him.

He blows a stray strand of verdant hair out of his face and tucks it behind his ear, positioning himself properly to channel his strongest attack magic. His breath comes in shallow—courtesy of the terror lurking underneath his determination, no doubt. He’s unfortunately gotten used to fighting in the past five years, but that doesn’t mean that the nauseating pit in his gut has magically gone away. He’s made sure his magic is, for the most part, intended not to draw blood. Wind that bludgeons, or fire that sears the skin. It’s been easier that way.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notes that the soldiers behind him haven’t advanced yet, so he shouldn’t have to worry about it right away. Though theoretically, it would be easy to stab him from behind right now and end it, so these soldiers must not be the greatest tacticians. That’s a point in his favor, at least.

“Linhardt von Hevring,” one of the knights in front of him says, startling him out of his thoughts momentarily. They shouldn’t know his name. He’s not even that recognizable, and despite being the heir to Hevring territory, he was never particularly well-known in the Empire.

Warily, he doesn’t answer, his brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers glow with the beginnings of a spell. Someone from the Empire who knows him must be looking for him, and he can’t think of any scenario in which that’s a good thing. He considers slowly inching his way back towards the others, but he doesn’t think he could get away with it. Goddess, he could really use a rescue right now, where the fuck is Caspar?

“We have orders to bring you back to Enbarr alive. You can come with us willingly, or we will take you home by force.”

Linhardt’s heart stops as the pieces slot into place.

“...What?” he whispers under his breath before he can stop himself. No. _No_. He promised himself he wouldn’t go back. He realizes now that _that’s_ why they separated him from the others, so they can steal him away unhindered, and _make him go back_. He can feel his eyes go wide with panic, the paranoia and fear quickly setting in, his smothered terror bubbling back to the surface.

The knight’s horse takes a few steps forward, enough for Linhardt to spot the House Vestra insignia on his armor. Fuck, _fuck_ , Hubert sent them. Oh, goddess, that’s the only thing worse than dying. Hubert has never been a particularly understanding or forgiving man—if Hubert sent his own soldiers to capture him, he’s serious about this. The Empire wants him back and will spare no expense.

“Why—“ His breath catches suddenly and he forces himself to steady it. Where _is_ everyone?! Haven’t they noticed he’s gone? “Why would they want me back? I left. I-I don’t _want_ to go back. They can’t make me.”

Judging by his lack of an answer, it doesn’t seem like the knight shares Linhardt’s opinion of the situation. Instead he approaches again and pulls a length of rope from the side of his saddle, tossing it to one of the grinning footsoldiers beside him. Linhardt feels his stomach drop through the ground. “This is your last chance, von Hevring. Come quietly.”

Oh, no. Goddess, no. He can’t do this alone. He needs help.

“P-Professor.” His word comes out hoarse the first time. The next one is a scream. “PROFESSOR!”

A hand is slammed on his shoulder and he rips away, spinning around and igniting his enemy in a frantic burst of flame. One of the cavaliers takes the opportunity to charge their horse at him, but he just barely manages to stagger out of the way and conjure up an Excalibur spell to put them out of commission. His next spell fizzles out in his hands as he realizes that one of the enemy mages has Silenced him, and suddenly he is unarmed and defenseless as another soldier lashes out with a glistening purple blade and draws a quick superficial line across his torso that immediately burns like wildfire. _Poison,_ he thinks in a panic, but he doesn’t have any antitoxins on him and his magic is gone.

His hair is yanked roughly backwards without fanfare, and he cries out in pain as his hands fly up to remove the offending soldier’s grip. He doesn’t get the opportunity—the footsoldiers choose that moment to swarm him, forcing his arms behind his back and shoving him to his knees with an unnecessarily hard kick. His mind feels sluggish all of a sudden, and he can barely keep his balance—it must be the poison, this must be Hubert’s doing. This feels like his head is quickly being filled with molasses, and rather than letting himself fall into sleep’s gentle embrace, he finds himself fighting this slumber impersonation with every fiber of his body.

A last ditch effort, he opens his mouth to cry for help when a knee crashes into his gut, knocking the wind out of him hard enough that he sees stars. Blood flies out of his mouth as he keels over, but they don’t let him hit the ground. Instead they restrain his hands and drag him over to one of the horses, and he tries to fight them as they secure him over the saddle—but even now he can feel the darkness fraying the edges of his vision and some deeper part of him knows that this fight is already lost. He doesn’t want to go, please, please, don’t make him go. The Professor won’t let this happen. Caspar, Caspar will save him.

But there’s no blue.

“H-help me,” he pleads to no one in particular, his voice indistinguishable against the thundering of hooves on the dirt roads and the nauseating bouncing of the horse beneath him. Every second makes it harder to form words, harder to beg, harder to see through the haze of tears. “Please, help...Proffes’r. Pro... _Caspar_...plea, Cas _..._ ”

As his eyes finally slip shut, the last thing he sees is the monastery in the distance, slowly fading away.

***

Linhardt wakes up with a gasp from a nightmare, his head jolting upright. The nightmare had been so vivid, so real, that for a moment, waking up, he believed he’d been...

Oh.

Oh, no, that wasn’t a nightmare, was it.

He swallows cautiously, grimacing against the brittle feeling of his dry mouth. He’s hungry, which doesn’t happen very often. How long was he out? Long enough that he’s aware of his hunger, so probably long enough to...to bring him to Enbarr.

He can’t bring himself to say they brought him _back._ They didn't. He was never really part of this, not like any of the others. He didn’t want to be a part of this.

His eyes squint in an attempt to make out any details, but it’s pitch black here. If he had to guess, he’d say he’s in a cell in one of Enbarr’s dungeons. His whole body hurts, the kind of ache that tells him he’s been seated with terrible posture for far too long. Trying to move confirms it. He can’t stand from his position because his wrists are shackled to the wall behind him—the restraints are unflinchingly tight and far enough apart to make it near impossible to move his torso. His legs are free, whatever good that will do him when he’s already on the floor and still feels too sluggish to try and move too much.

Linhardt summons a small fireball so he can see the extent of his predicament—he immediately extinguishes it upon seeing the brutal scene of blood sprayed across the wall opposite him, making bile rise up in the back of his throat. Goddess. They could have at least put him in a clean cell.

Exhaling tightly, he conjures another light closer to himself to survey his injuries. His hair has fallen in front of his face for the most part, and annoyingly enough, he can’t brush it aside without the use of his hands. His shirt and jacket are gone, replaced with a neatly wrapped bandage around where that poisoned blade had sliced him. There’s minimal red on the bandage, to his relief. Other than that wound, he’s covered in small scratches and larger bruises, all somewhere in the process of healing. 

Something about waking up like this, partially healed but still imprisoned, is more terrifying than if he had woken up while bleeding to death. This means they plan to keep him alive for something.

A bright light spills into the cell suddenly and Linhardt yelps a little in surprise as his eyes take a moment to adjust. Through the iron bars of the door’s tiny window, he sees a mage looking in at him, apparently surveying the situation. Without any warning, his fire crackles out under a Silence spell and the shutter over the bars slams shut. The door blocks sound pretty well, but Linhardt could swear he hears someone muttering “ _He’s awake”._

They know he’s conscious now. They must have been waiting for him to wake up.

His only source of light gone, Linhardt von Hevring is left to wait. Time in this pitch-black void is meaningless, but Linhardt has plenty of it regardless to imagine what his fate will be. Maybe they’ll execute him publicly. Or put him back in the fight—he’s not entirely sure which of those is worse. He tries not to panic, since panic won’t get him out of this predicament any faster, but the longer he waits, the harder it is to breathe normally, and the more he starts to ask himself the kind of questions that never have a good answer.

When the door creaks open this time, Linhardt thinks he must have been left here in the dark for hours. He turns away from the light that spills in through the doorway, which is immediately replaced by a very familiar silhouette against the wall.

Hubert von Vestra is flanked by two mages as he enters the cell, and Linhardt is suddenly alarmingly aware of the fact that he is completely trapped here with the most sadistic member of the former Black Eagles.

Hubert’s eyes scan over Linhardt’s form as if making a mental checklist before he reaches into his robes and pulls a small vial of glimmering opal liquid out of his pocket. Linhardt doesn’t recognize it, it must be one of Hubert’s original recipes. “Do it,” he says curtly to one of the mages, handing the vial off to her.

Linhardt barely has a moment to breathe before the other mage wraps a hand in his hair and pulls back hard— _again_ , Goddess he should really cut it short one of these days considering how much of a liability it’s been. He yelps in surprise and the first mage takes the opportunity to pour the entire contents of the vial down his throat. Choking, he coughs hard with the intent to expel the putrid liquid, but his nose is suddenly pinched shut and another hand clasps tightly over his mouth. His pathetic struggle lasts only a few seconds before he is forced to swallow whatever concoction Hubert has probably hand-tailored to torture him. 

The mages release him with a shove and retreat to the back of the room, leaving Hubert staring coldly down at Linhardt. At some point he thinks they hung a lantern above him, because Linhardt’s side of the cell is now coated in a sinister orange glow.

Linhardt coughs again as the bitter aftertaste of the potion fades away, and finally forces himself to speak. “How lo—“ A spluttering cough interrupts him, he starts over. His head feels...funny. He can’t exactly describe it. “How long until your poison works?”

“You’ll know,” Hubert replies, clipped and tight. He’s silent for a moment before he sighs and pulls a knife from his belt.

Linhardt’s breath catches as Hubert kneels down in front of him, towering over him even like this. “Hubert—“

“ _Quiet_.” He stops as Hubert presses the point of the blade against his throat, tipping Linhardt’s head up so he can better see the hatred in Hubert’s eyes. The knife hasn’t broken skin yet, but under Hubert’s glare Linhardt can somehow feel the sting as if it has. “Do not _dare_ speak to me as an equal. In my eyes, you are nothing but a defector. Are we understood, traitor?”

Linhardt bites his lip and nods as much as he can with a knife to his throat. It won’t do him any good to deny it—he’d tried before, back at the monastery, to pretend he wasn’t. Caspar had almost convinced him that he wasn’t betraying the Empire.

Hubert knows better.

A derisive scoff escapes Hubert’s lips at Linhardt’s obedience. “Amazingly, it appears you can still follow orders. Were it solely up to me, you would spend the rest of your days here in abject agony, until you begged me for death. I would have you suffer your worst fears, day in and day out, until you couldn’t tell what was real from what was conceived in the confines of your traitorous mind. Consider yourself lucky that Her Majesty has a use in mind for you, or this encounter would be very different.”

“A-a use,” Linhardt repeats cautiously. 

“Unfortunately. Your knowledge of crests has become invaluable to the Empire’s mission, enough so to overlook your actions. I could do it myself, but as Her Majesty’s advisor, I have far better things to do with my time—but you have no such luxury. As an act of mercy, the Emperor has decided that you will remain in Enbarr under house arrest and conduct research on a viable method of removing an individual’s crest without lasting damage.”

A short, relieved breath escapes Linhardt. That’s...actually not so bad. He was expecting a far worse fate than research. Edelgard had actually mentioned it to him a couple times over the past five years, and he’s considered the potential of such a procedure on multiple occasions. Though, if he thinks about it, he supposes he’ll have to interact a lot with blood, but it’s still better than being forced to kill the Professor or his newfound allies on the battlefield. 

“Research,” Linhardt whispers. “Yes, I-I can do that. Provided the facilities, I’ll be able to get you the information you desire.”

“Good.”

Hubert pulls the knife away and then drags it hard across the side of Linhardt’s neck.

Linhardt’s shocked scream of pain fades to a gurgle as blood pours from the wound down his shoulder. The wound is deep and deadly—he can already feel himself choking, and the panic flashing across his eyes is just as much from his fear of blood as from his sudden inability to breathe. His body spasms instinctively, forgetting his restraints as his legs kick feebly beneath him for purchase. He tries not to look, he really, _really_ tries, but it’s just impossible not to and the sight of his own blood gushing from his wound makes his head spin even faster than it already is.

And Hubert just watches him squirm.

_I’m still awake_ , he realizes in horror after the agony persists for a minute, after realizing that Hubert has not left. On top of the fact that he’s struggling for air, his mind is being flooded with stimuli—pain, the revulsion of seeing his own blood, the anxiety of this situation—and any one of those on its own should have made him pass out already, but he’s still awake. Hubert’s poison is forcing him to stay conscious through his worst nightmare.

“Wait.” His heart races as Hubert stands, and when Linhardt speaks, his words are choked and desperate. “I-I’m sor, sorry,” he stammers, feeling the tears welling out of his eyes. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, he should have just stayed with the Empire and done as he was told from the start, he should have stayed he should have stayed he shouldn’t have left and this is all his fault. “Pl-please, Hubert, no, I’m sosorry, don’t do this—“

“Consider this a preview of what will happen to you should you ever cross Lady Edelgard again. Your work begins tomorrow.” There’s more venom in his voice than in any poison. Hubert ignores Linhardt’s pleas for forgiveness and turns to the mages on the other wall. “The potion is untested, so I’m unsure of how long it will last. Keep him conscious, keep him alive.”

The glowing warmth of white magic over his body as the mages begin their work does nothing to ease his terror. His research starts tomorrow, meaning he has to stay here until then? No, no that’s too long. Hubert can’t just leave him here like this, this is too cruel, this is too much, even for him. He’ll do whatever it takes to make this stop, if Hubert would just _listen._

“ _Please,_ no, no, don’t l-eave me here,” he begs again, an undisguised sob.

Hubert leaves and pulls the cell door shut without even giving him so much as a second glance.

As minutes of agony fade to hours, Linhardt’s struggles slow. It’s a miracle he hasn’t choked on his own blood, but his handlers are somehow keeping him right on the cusp of being able to breathe and choking, and the flow of blood from the cut has dampened to a point where he suspects it’s no longer gushing. He can’t really see anything anymore—adrenaline and survival instincts have practically reprogrammed his mind for one thing and one thing only, breathing.

Truth be told, he’s gotten used to the feeling of choking. Dangerously dangling his feet over the precipice of death, tied to the edge regardless of how badly his body wants him to fling himself into the chasm. The hours drag by and the novelty of that precipice is no longer so daunting. Now he’s just sitting there, suffering the only thing his mind can even think to comprehend. 

He feels so weak. All he wants right now is to be able to close his eyes and pass out, or maybe pass on if this pain will go away.

At some point, hours, months, years into his own personal hell, he feels Hubert’s potion wear off. Healing magic does nothing to quell the utter exhaustion that plagues his body, and like a candle waiting to be snuffed, Linhardt is blissfully unconscious.

***

The return of consciousness is not kind to Linhardt. When he wakes, it is sluggish, as though his mind is wading through miles and miles of tar just to get him to open his eyes. Everything hurts, so much and all he wants is to be asleep, be unconscious again, dead to the world, but the whine of his heart for oxygenated blood keeps him awake.

He can’t move. Can barely feel the subtle rise of his chest and the fall with each desperate, thin breath. When he finally blinks, it is slow, laborious, and drags a whimper of pain out of him.

_“—need to see him!”_

The voice registers as familiar, but Linhardt can barely parse the words. He can hear the passion behind them, though, and something about that is more familiar than the voice itself.

_“Ma’am, I-I can’t just—”_

_“Yeah, well, who would you rather fight with on this? Me, or Edie? Let. Me. In.”_

Not a moment later and the door creaks open. Heels click against the floor sharply, but stop after a moment.

_“...Oh, Lin.”_

_“Is...is he...?”_ another voice, male, whispers, so faint that Linhardt almost misses it.

_“No, h-he’s still breathing, but..._ oh, _Goddess_ , Lin,” the woman breathes through a sob. There’s silence for a moment, and then footsteps as someone kneels in front of him. Gentle hands glowing with magic lift his head upright and he is staring into tearstained emerald eyes.

“Linhardt?” Dorothea asks, her voice soft yet strained. He can hear it better now, the cultivated tambre of her honey-sweet soprano that she’s trained all her life. “Sweetie, can you hear me?”

Unable to reply, he closes his eyes and lets his head sink into her hands. The magic that flows through her fingers is so much nicer than what he remembers happening in the night, he could just fall asleep again right here and maybe everything would be better.

“—Hey, no. Linhardt? _Lin_.” To his disappointment, she pulls her hand away, tapping him hard on the cheek. The action sends tremors of pain through his neck, and he gasps softly as he opens his eyes and looks back into hers. There’s a hardness in them now, but not from malice, he thinks. Intent. “Absolutely _not_. Linhardt von Hevring, stay awake. Do not pass out on me, I’m not losing you today. Ferdie,” she says over her shoulder sharply. “Get the keys from the guards.”

Ferdinand says something in reply and Linhardt thinks he leaves, but he can’t quite tell because Dorothea is talking to him. “Lin, I need you to focus on me, okay? Can you speak?”

Probably not. He’s not in the right frame of mind to assess the extent of his injuries—and even if he was, he doesn’t consider himself brave enough to try.

“Can you move at all?”

He tries. He really, really tries, but all he can muster is a minute, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Okay. Okay, just hang tight, we’re gonna get you out of here.”

There’s a click of a mechanism opening on his right wrist, and suddenly his hand is free and Goddess, it _stings._ Vaguely he registers that he must have been struggling hard enough to break skin on the edge of his cuffs. 

He barely even feels it as the other wrist is released and he collapses forward onto Dorothea’s shoulder, a puppet with his strings cut. The world spins as strong arms reach under his bloodstained body and slowly hoist him up until he is finally off the ground.

Dorothea smiles sadly at him and brushes a strand of hair out of his face. “Ferdie and I are going to take you to my rooms, okay? We, we’re going to clean you off and fix you up, and we’ll keep you safe.”

_This is a trap._

Linhardt feels what’s left of his heart skip a beat as Dorothea’s eyes ghost over his, like she’s not really looking at him. He sees the lie suddenly, clear as day. This, this is a trap. They’re taking him somewhere worse.

But what can he do? Bundled up in Ferdinand’s grip, in muscles bulked from years of riding horseback and wielding all manner of weapons. With a mage who knows how to Silence him. Even if he could move, he wouldn’t get far. He’s completely helpless.

The terror must be reflected in his eyes, because Dorothea’s smile falls. “...Linhardt, please, you’re scaring me. You’re safe with us, I promise you, I’m not letting that—that _thing_ get anywhere near you.”

Linhardt does not miss the tensing of Ferdinand’s hands around him.

_They’re lying._

But what can he do?

They move and Linhardt cannot do anything but wait. Every moment, he waits for an ambush, a surprise, something worse than what he’s just endured. They’re taking him to another cell. Another torture chamber. Hubert is not done with him yet.

But they take him back towards Dorothea’s rooms. She was always close to the infirmary, as was Linhardt when he lived here. For convenience’s sake. He recognizes the smell of antiseptics, strong and pervasive in the halls. The trap must be here. They’re going to take him to the infirmary, and he’s going to be tortured and maimed until they can be certain that he will do as he is told.

Instead they bring him to Dorothea’s bathchambers. He is eased out of his bloodstained clothing and into the bath, where Ferdinand brushes through his matted hair as Dorothea holds his hand and recites every healing spell she knows, until Linhardt can start to move his hands, to grasp the edge of the tub to keep himself from slipping into the water that is more blood and filth than soap.

_This is a trap._

And yet they help him into a fresh set of robes. Ferdinand steadies his arm as he stumbles back towards the lavish bed in the corner of the next room, where there’s a meager meal that his feeble body will probably be able to stomach. As he slowly attempts to eat, Dorothea hands him a glass of clear liquid, probably water, but Linhardt grows nauseous just looking at it.

“Drink it, please,” she says. “It will help you sleep— _real_ sleep, not whatever Hubert did.”

He flinches at the name, but Dorothea’s smile is so familiar, and he’s too weak and scared to try and run, so he drinks the glass, certain it’s poison.

_I’m going to wake up in a prison cell,_ he thinks numbly, as his eyes drift closed. _Or maybe I won’t wake up at all._

Light streams through the windows. He wakes up in the same bed, with Dorothea sitting beside him, and another healer he doesn’t recognize, his arm connected to some medical device that is probably intended to cause him unspeakable pain. Except it doesn’t, and he is quiet and lethargic as clean bandages are rewound around his neck, which he tries not to think about because it makes it hard to breathe. 

Certain that it’s all a lie, he lets himself be repaired, piece by piece. He knows that, should he try to run, he wouldn’t get far. He answers simple questions with single words, yes or no—his throat hurts when he does, but he gets the feeling that, even if it didn’t, he wouldn’t know what to say. Nothing could possibly get him out of this.

Dorothea stays by his side whenever he is awake, pumping healing magic into him until her hands are shaking. She’s trying too hard. He feels broken, and whatever she’s trying to find in him, to fix, there’s nothing left of it to be pieced back together.

Almost a week later, Linhardt is given a clean bill of health, despite the fact that he still can’t quite draw a breath the right way, or stop himself from reaching up at his bandages to claw away the blade he can still feel. Dorothea dismisses the healer and sits down behind him on the bed, combing through his hair and laying it down over his shoulders, just the way he thinks he liked it.

Her hand accidentally ghosts over his bandages and he jolts, his hands clenching into the sheets. Dorothea mumbles a soft apology, and for a good while, they are silent as she continues.

“Linhardt?”

It hurts to turn all the way around, so he doesn’t bother. He glances to look at Dorothea, whose movements have slowed. Her eyes are red, rimmed with tears, but she doesn’t meet his stare.

Without warning she clambers around him on the bed and grasps his fragile hands in her own.

“I need you to leave. Please. _Please_ , I just can’t bear to see you like this. I need you to go back to the monastery and be safe. Can you do it? For me, Lin, please, go.”

His eyes widen in surprise as her grip tightens, desperately. “I already asked Petra, she’ll help you get out of Enbarr, but you have to go tonight—“

“I can’t.”

Her head shoots upright, just as surprised as him to hear those words. Goddess, Linhardt can’t even find it in himself to just say ‘okay’. He so, _so_ badly wants to say it. He wants to run. 

He starts to correct himself, to fix his mistake, to just say, _Yes, please, take me away from here, let’s go, right fucking now._

But then he thinks of the soldiers cornering him outside the monastery, and he sees his blood, pouring across the floor and choking the life out of him, and he knows there is nowhere he can go that Hubert won’t find him and make him regret ever being alive in the first place.

“I-I can’t,” he mutters instead, shaking his head. His chest feels tight, constricted. How can he be this much of a weakling? How is he this frail? Why can’t he just say it? Why, why _WHY?_ “I can’t, I _can’t_. I just...I...c-can’t, can’t—”

It’s suddenly impossible to breathe. Everything is terrible and terrifying and he’s trapped here and it’s all his fault and he can’t _breathe_ —

Dorothea’s expression melts and without further prompting she pulls him close to her in a tight embrace. Linhardt falls apart at the touch and bursts into tears, loud hiccupy sobs that are barely muffled by the fabric of her robes. He lets himself fall apart in a way he hasn’t since his first kill, where he’d been so terrified by his capacity for murder that he’d nearly hyperventilated himself into a coma, and tiny little Caspar had carried him to the infirmary with all the fury of a bloodthirsty wyvern. He’d been pathetic then too—a miserable, sobbing, breathless mess of a human, relying on someone else to carry him off to safety.

Linhardt hates himself so much as he buries his face into her shoulder. He did this to himself, and yet he cries like a child to someone who’s _literally_ offering him a fucking out and he’s too much of a coward to take it.

Was this part of his punishment, too?

***

As soon as Hubert finds out about Dorothea’s attempted escape plan, Linhardt is taken away. It’s kind of surprising that Hubert didn’t find out sooner—after all, his research was supposed to begin days ago. Either they were all wondering where Linhardt had disappeared to and were too stupid to check with his old classmates, or Hubert didn’t bother to search for him until now because he just didn’t give a damn. The latter is more likely.

He doesn’t fight the guards as they order him to follow—but Dorothea does. She is vicious and vibrant and protective as she brandishes a sword in front of her and holds a hand out to keep Linhardt back, and if Linhardt had looked at her courage for any longer it would have made him sick so he had given himself over willingly before she could convince him otherwise.

Now Linhardt stands in his new cell—a research laboratory that, to anyone else of the scholarly persuasion, might seem like a blessing. Except Linhardt is not like everyone else. As he surveys the room, the invisible bars become obvious. He notes that the windows cannot be opened, that there is only one exit to the room and it is always locked, that the guards Hubert has appointed to him will not stop watching his every move. One of them is very clearly a mage, and the other is definitely a melee fighter, and the guards will likely change shifts randomly so he can’t keep track of when they might be open to attack. Either one of them would be sufficient to take him down should he try to escape or do anything rash, and then the mage would fix him. He supposes that that _is_ their entire job, to make sure he does what he is told and completes his work and doesn’t unintentionally die in a coincidental workplace accident.

He runs a hand over the operating table in the center of the room, ignoring Ferdinand‘s voice as it trickles towards him from the doorway. The surface is pristine. Of course. _Only the best for their most valuable crest scholar,_ he thinks bitterly. He’s not used to being the most valuable anything, and he doesn’t think he particularly likes it.

“Linhardt.” This time, Ferdinand’s voice carries through, and Linhardt casts a glance at the man. 

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

“Why _would_ I be?”

He tries not to make that sound as accusatory as it feels, but judging by Ferdinand’s flinch away, he fails.

“I... Linhardt, I really _am_ sorry—”

Red boils up behind his eyes and he can’t stop himself.

“Don’t be,” Linhardt says, deceptively calm. ”After all, why should _you_ be sorry? You did nothing. You had no say in whether your boyfriend slit my throat and left me conscious while I attempted to bleed to death, only to be forcefully fixed over and over again. There’s nothing wrong with a person who allows that to happen, so don’t feel guilty.”

Ferdinand pales as if the specter of death itself has passed through him. Linhardt can see the vaguest of tears forming in the man’s eyes, but honestly can’t bring himself to regret a word. Everyone here is a liar, a monster, but Ferdinand is worse because he is in _love_ with the man who kidnapped Linhardt and tortured him and—

He shuts the thoughts down. In the past week, he’s learned that turning off his emotions is the quickest way to stay the panic that overtakes him whenever he thinks about the blood gushing from his arteries, or the struggle against unforgiving chains, or _Hubert_. The only thing that leaks through now is resentment, and frankly, he’s surprised by how much of that he had in him.

He should never have trusted any of them to have his best interests at heart. Everyone here answers to Hubert, who answers only to Edelgard. Nobody in the entire Empire can be trusted to keep Linhardt safe from either of them. _Nobody._

...Although Dorothea has been forbidden from visiting him. He takes that to mean that she is the only one he _can_ trust.

When he looks up from his musings, Ferdinand is nowhere to be found. Instead, Hubert is standing in his place. Linhardt’s stomach drops to his heels as Hubert’s cold eyes stare down at his, and Linhardt gets the distinct feeling that Hubert is looking at him like he is a total stranger.

_Which,_ Linhardt realizes, _he probably is._

Suddenly feeling dizzy, Linhardt ducks his head down and stares intently at the floor.

To his own shame, Linhardt has learned his lesson from Hubert von Vestra. Linhardt does not look him directly in the eye again as Hubert explains his research tasks in further detail. He does not complain when he is told that Those Who Slither in the Dark will be occasionally providing him with human test subjects. He does not comment unless told to, and pays extra attention to his breathing to make sure he doesn’t sound like he’s panicking when Hubert demands a weekly progress report.

Hubert doesn’t address Linhardt by name once, does not ask him if he understands. He’s clearly managed a research project before, and he clearly knows Linhardt’s skill level—because he’s not asking anything particularly impossible of him, but also not giving him anything that can be accomplished in less than a month. Study crestology, figure out what mechanism activates a crest in a person’s bloodline, find a way to sever that connection. Linhardt thinks he would enjoy this conversation if it were with anyone else, but Hubert’s particular glare feels like he’s back under the knife, and it’s hard for him to acknowledge anything that Hubert is saying when he can barely hear him over his pulse in his ears.

The taller man leaves as soon as they finish speaking, the lock of the door clicking shut behind him. Linhardt finally allows himself to collapse against the wall, the panic expelling out of him in quiet sobs that rack his fragile frame. 

His hand instinctively travels up his neck and presses hard against his new scar, where he can still sometimes feel the blood spurting out like a fountain. _I was such a fool to run,_ he thinks, over and over, filled with regret and self-deprecation and hatred for his stupidity, thinking he could run away and be safe and happy with people who didn’t make him do things he didn’t want to do.

But he can’t sit there crying forever. After a few minutes, one of his guards drags him to his feet and orders him to begin his research, and so he puts on his bravest face and gets to work.

Linhardt throws himself into his research with a manic fervor he’s never experienced before. He finds himself immersed in the process of research and experimentation, the only things he has here that he genuinely once found joy in, and stops thinking about anything else. He has no time for stressors, no time for anything besides his work and his end goal—because the moment he slows down, he knows he will start to think about everyone back at the monastery, and he can’t afford to wander down that road. Instead servants bring him every book from Enbarr’s library on crestology and he pores over them and dissects them, filling the margins with notes and sometimes ripping pages out to pin them to a wall for fast access. He only slows down to make his reports to Hubert at least partially legible.

Days slide into weeks. A week becomes two, three, a month. He makes real progress—he thinks he’s isolated a fundamental part of the process to at least dampen a crest’s abilities, as well as some frowned-upon sigils in forbidden dark magic books that claim to be used to remove a crest—but he quickly comes upon a dilemma. The only way to move forward is to begin human testing. He’s always been aware of the ethical boundaries to his research, and had often used them as an excuse to avoid experimenting on living beings, fighting against his own curiosity for what he knew was his own good. But Hubert said that he’ll eventually be given test subjects when the research is at that point, and if Linhardt’s experience is anything to go off of, Hubert will have no such moral quandaries. 

He’s always been disgusted by blood, nauseated despite his best attempts to get better at dealing with it. After all, he’s a healer, and he has to look at a wound to fix it. The war has unfortunately given him a reason to adjust himself, and though he’d still avoided injuries like the plague when he was in the field, he’d handled it. 

But that was before. And now something more primal is buried under that disgust—and the terror that comes up with even _thoughts_ of the color red is damn near incapacitating. Judging from his research, he’d need an alarming amount of blood from any person he tried to remove the crest from, and he can barely even stare at a paper cut without getting dizzy, but now he gets flashes of pain, twinges of memories of his torture with every drop. He doesn’t want to work with blood, even less than he did before.

He tries to think of a way out of it (Maybe his own blood? No, there’s a possibility of it backfiring and killing him and that would be _more_ than unproductive), but ultimately can’t think of a valid reason to eliminate it altogether that Hubert would buy. So he dodges instead. He spends more time than he needs to refining his formulas and insisting that it’s not yet safe for live trials.

He subtly fudges as many of his reports as he can, but he should have figured out that Hubert wasn’t falling for it. Shortly into the Pegasus Moon, Hubert barges into the lab with two of the bird mask mages in tow. Dragged between them is a young woman about Linhardt’s age, bloodied and bruised and dressed in rags. The mages don’t wait for a go-ahead and carry her to the operating table—her eyes flutter dazedly as they secure her to it. Goddess, she’s still _conscious._

“She has the Major Crest of Noa,” Hubert says, with a nod to her. “You will remove it.” 

A major crest? A rare specimen, then. Linhardt looks between the girl and Hubert, his brow furrowed. It takes all his concentration not to look away, or pass out, or throw up or really react in any way. “I-I’m not sure how to yet,” he mutters instead. 

“Then I suppose today will mark the beginning of human trials. Thales plans to procure more within the next few moons, but until then this is all we have available. I recommend keeping this one and storing enough blood to continue testing.”

_You say that like you expect her to die._

—is what Linhardt would like to say. Instead he nods mutely and begins assembling his tools, because what else is he supposed to do?

***

She doesn’t make it.

Maybe his guards are feeling more merciful that day, but they let Linhardt spend a few hours bundled up on his small cot, arms bunched up around his knees and quiet sobs occasionally breaking free. 

He can’t stop hearing her. She had gotten talkative in her last days, begging him to free her, that she couldn’t die like this, that her family needed her. Her screams had been piercing, horrified. Linhardt hadn’t replied to her once—he knows that he wouldn’t have been able to continue his work if he had—and he never got the chance to. Her screams had cut short to a gurgle, and then her eyes had rolled back in her head, and a steady stream of blood had begun to ooze from her lips as her pulse ceased to exist.

He’d learned some important information in the process of torturing her crest out of her bloodline, but he hadn’t managed to remove it, so what was even the point? In the end, she had died with her crest. She had died for nothing.

This is different from his kills in battle. This wasn’t self-defense. _He_ did this. 

He vomits up the contents of his stomach at the thought, feeling his thin frame shake with nausea. Her blood is on his hands, his clothes, his face. It’s like his soul is stained—the quick bath he takes immediately afterwards may erase the blood, but not the memories.

At some indeterminate point some time later, Linhardt rises from the bed and salvages what research materials he can before one of his guards carries the body away. And he continues to work.

Days and nights blur together. He gets visitors sometimes, but they don’t stay long. He can’t entirely remember any of the visits, other than the fact that they’d all gone badly. Bernadetta had only managed to stay there for a few minutes before something he’d said had scared her off, and he hasn’t seen her since. Ferdinand hasn’t come back since that first day and Dorothea’s not allowed to. Sometimes Petra brings his dinner, but all her attempts at conversation are cut short by Linhardt’s total inability to reply without being an asshole. Even one one of his younger brothers had attempted to stop by—but something about that thought had been so abhorrent to him that he had told the guards not to let him in, made an excuse about not disturbing his experiments. The idea of any of his family seeing him like this...no, he can’t think about it. He has to keep going, keep surviving, keep doing what he’s told.

At night, he gets in bed and stares at the wall for six hours, before rising again with the first crow of the rooster. His bed is in the same room that he dissects humans, viscera splayed out meters away from the place he sleeps. It’s another little detail of the Empire’s control over him. He doesn’t get much sleep anymore anyway, and a part of him is pretty sure he deserves that.

Near the end of the Great Tree Moon, Edelgard visits Linhardt’s lab. He’s not expecting the visit—which he assumes is fairly obvious, given the blood splattered across his work robes and the startled way in which he jumps at her voice. She hasn’t visited him before, so he had no reason to expect her.

She dismisses his guards with the subtlest nod of her head, her eyes only briefly flicking away from him. How long has it been since he’s been without an armed complement? Months? Considering who they've been replaced with, he doesn’t feel any more relaxed.

It’s been a while since Linhardt has seen Edelgard, but she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s still every bit the authority he remembers—fierce even when motionless, like a burning ember, or a sleeping dragon.

She looks like she’s in the middle of putting on her usual battle regalia. For once, her hair is down from her usual headdress, and her chestplate is nowhere to be found. Instead she’s wearing a tight white blouse and leggings, and only her boots are armored. It’s almost like he’s here with the classmate he met years ago, not the fearless leader she’s turned into.

Still. He’d been unsettled by her then. That much hasn’t changed.

“It seems that you’ve adjusted...somewhat,” she decides on, as Linhardt begins scrubbing the blood off of his robes. “You’ve made great strides in your research, and I am very grateful for your contributions.”

“Okay,” he says, still not looking at her. He doesn’t really want to look at the blood clinging to his sleeves, but the alternative is looking at her and he doesn’t particularly feel like dealing with that right now. Instead he stares at the hem of his left sleeve as though it’s personally offended him and runs it under the water of his wash basin, scrubbing hard.

“I truly mean it, Linhardt. Your work, like mine, will change a lot of people’s lives for the better. You should be proud.”

He swallows the scoff building up behind his lips. Of course she sees it like that. She believes that the senseless murder of anyone who disagrees with her vision is worth it.

There’s quiet for a moment as she approaches him, save for the clacking of her heels against the ground.

“We’ve spotted Dimitri and his forces approaching from Garreg Mach, and our spies have reported suspicious Alliance troop movement in the east. The Black Eagles intend to intercept both parties at Gronder Field, and as much as I respect Dorothea, with only her...” She clears her throat awkwardly. “But that’s neither here nor there. Linhardt, I’d like to formally request your healing abilities in battle, if you are willing to lend them to the cause.”

Linhardt’s grip on his scrub slips and it collides with the basin, splashing a wave of water onto his desktop. “Ah— _shit_!” Edelgard forgotten, he conjures up a gust of wind to dry the pages before the damage becomes too irreversible. “No, no, please, not _again...”_

“Ah! Your research! I’m so sorry—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says quickly, more on instinct than intention. He’d imagined that the Blue Lions would continue their crusade without him, but the idea of them actually coming here... “I just, I wasn’t expecting—“

“Don’t worry. It was a mistake to ask,” she finishes. “I wanted to give you the choice, and I already knew your answer, but I thought, maybe... Ah. Nevermind. I’ll be leaving now, Linhardt. At the very least, I thought you should know that we’ll be leaving in the morning, should you never see us again.”

“I...see. Thank you.” His voice is quiet as he reorganizes his pages—hopefully Edelgard isn’t perceptive enough to see how little he hopes to see them again.

“Please continue with your research while we are away. I...apologize for Hubert’s harsh actions, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to stop your work. We need you, Linhardt.”

He doesn’t say anything to her as her footsteps recede. The next time he casts a look over his shoulder, his guards are back and Edelgard has, presumably, gone off to war.

***

Linhardt doesn’t get any visitors for the next few weeks, to his relief. His research slowly drags to a standstill—he runs out of that girl’s blood, and without it, he can’t keep experimenting. Unfortunately, not having anything to occupy himself with means his mind is allowed to wander. He wonders when everyone will come back— _will_ they come back? Or will the capital be stormed by Kingdom soldiers? Linhardt isn’t technically here of his own will, but he did come up with most of his tests, so whether or not he’ll be tried and convicted for his unethical research is entirely up in the air. If this horrible war were to end with the Empire on the losing side, Linhardt has no idea what would happen to him.

_If the war ends, will Caspar come here?_

The thought brings a frown to Linhardt’s lips. That’s a dangerous concept. Linhardt hasn’t allowed himself to think about his childhood friend since he got here. It had hurt too bad—and, thinking of him, it hurts now, a hollow ache around where his heart should be. He doesn’t know how to feel about Caspar. The more he thinks about the blue-haired boy he remembers, the more he...well, the more he _feels_. It varies. Most of the time, it’s that hollowness, like something is missing. But sometimes, there’s something nostalgic, and he thinks about how Caspar’s laugh could brighten a room until the world was blinding. Or the effortless way he’d heft Linhardt over his shoulder and bring him back to his room, and tuck him in for the night at two in the afternoon. He thinks of peaceful times and his best friend—his _only_ friend, the only one that had mattered—and how the world had been so simple back then.

And then sometimes, he feels a stabbing pain in his head, and he remembers calling out to his dearest friend for help back at the monastery, for a rescue, waiting for him—and he never came.

Linhardt doesn’t feel betrayed, he thinks. Just confused. And to him, that’s almost worse. He thought he knew Caspar. Had he missed something?

He does a thought experiment. What’s Caspar doing right now? Is he busy burying his axe deep into Edelgard’s chest? Or has he joined up with the Black Eagles again, and is his ferocity turned back on Dimitri and the Professor? That could go badly, Linhardt doubts Caspar could take them both on at once. Or maybe, in true Caspar von Bergliez fashion, he left. Just vanished, maybe to explore the world, maybe to find himself, maybe to find Linhardt.

That last part is scary. Linhardt doesn’t think he could take seeing Caspar again.

Why hadn’t Caspar saved him, back at the monastery? He always saved him.

Or...maybe they don’t think he made it off the battlefield. Maybe they think he’s dead, beaten to an unidentifiable corpse like any other. Maybe Caspar isn’t trying to find him, because he has no idea that Linhardt was taken in the first place.

Maybe he really is going to be here for the rest of his life, the silent scientist locked in a lab, nobody in the world aware of his existence.

Ugh. Thinking about this is making him sick. He stands from his cot and reads over his notes for the millionth time, digging for anything to distract him. He continues like this for a few more weeks, despite his best attempts at ignoring his thoughts—idly wondering how Annette is doing, or hoping Dorothea doesn’t die in battle. Wondering if Felix and Dimitri have figured out how to get along yet. Edelgard mentioned that Alliance forces were heading to Gronder as well, so does that mean Claude and his allies are there too? And he thinks about Caspar. Caspar, Caspar Caspar.

As time passes, the lack of visitors becomes unnerving. Surely, someone would have returned to Enbarr by now, right? He’s still got guards coming in, and servants bringing his food, but nobody he knows by name has been here in almost a month. So he’s still expected to stay here. What if the war is already over out there? Goddess, he hopes it is.

He gets his answer when they bring him another test subject.

When Hubert barges in, he looks terrible. Linhardt has never seen Hubert like that before—bloodied, scarred, his uniform haggard. But that’s not what shocks him. What really makes Linhardt splutter in surprise is the person dragged in by the masked mages.

“ _Sylvain_ ,” he breathes, his eyes so wide it hurts. Linhardt stumbles out of the way as the mages manhandle the knight past him and towards the operating table. Unlike that other girl, he’s fully conscious and fighting, hard, harder than Linhardt has ever seen the ginger fight before.

“Fucking—let _go_ of me!” Something about his voice, the familiarity, the venom directed at his captors, stuns Linhardt into silence. Sylvain manages to rip a hand free from his guard’s grip and kicks the other away, and for a moment it looks like he’s actually going to fight them—and then his eyes lock on Linhardt and he freezes, shock everywhere in his expression, his body unmoving. “What? Linha—“

Sylvain is mid-saying Linhardt’s name when one of his guards slams the hilt of their sword into his head and he crumples. Linhardt can only watch as the mages grab his prone body and hoist him onto the table like nothing happened.

He hasn’t heard his name in so long.

Hubert exhales hard and straightens up, indifferent to the struggle that just occurred in the room. “You are aware of his crest, yes?” 

Linhardt’s head whips around at Hubert’s question. He can’t be serious, can he?

He answers robotically. “Y-yes. The Minor Crest of Gautier.”

“Good. I’ll expect results by the end of the next moon. Do _not_ waste this one.”

As Hubert turns on his heels and makes as if to leave, Linhardt pales—and he _knows_ he should keep his mouth shut, should just stay away and do as he’s told, but—

He thinks of that girl. He still calls her “that girl”, he still doesn’t know her name, even now, even after he’d taken her life. Maybe a part of him can live with that. But he’s seen Sylvain in pain before, has patched him up mid-battle, or sometimes after the fact. He’s seen Sylvain flirt with everything that moves, and he’s rolled his eyes at how obviously fake it was countless times. His voice, his mannerisms, Linhardt knows them, and to some extent, Sylvain knows him too. Sylvain isn’t a stranger that he can ignore.

“—I can’t do it.”

Hubert stops dead in his tracks, casting a glare over his shoulder that freezes Linhardt in place.

“We are at _war_ ,” Hubert says. His voice drips with vitriol, a warning. “He is a _prisoner_ of war—and frankly, so are you. This should not be an issue—”

“I don’t want to kill him! I-I’m here because you want me to do research, not, not _murder_ people I know!” Linhardt’s hands knot in his hair, a habit he’s picked up in his time here. “I killed the last one, what’s to say that I won’t fuck up and do it again, and I can’t, I can’t have that _blood_ on my hands, not ag—”

The sharp slap that connects with his face is entirely unexpected, and Linhardt, already unbalanced, tumbles to the floor, his head banging hard against his desk on the way down. His vision swims as Hubert straightens his robes and leaves without another word.

The threat is not missed.

After what feels like forever and a half, Linhardt rises woozily and realizes his fall must have cut open his forehead, as blood now pours down his face and is blocking his left eye. Fuck. Might be a concussion, that would get in the way of his work. He shuts his eyes quickly and braces himself against the nearest chair—and already he can feel magic washing over him, its touch cold and indifferent as one of his guards repairs him.

He pulls himself together, fumbling around for a rag to towel off his face so he can continue working. Maybe he can at least make Sylvain feel comfortable before he has to start tearing him apart.

He places his hands on Sylvain’s scarred torso, channeling his crest to pump the man full of healing magic.

“Hey! No healing—“

“I can’t work with a test subject who’s dead,” Linhardt snaps back wearily at the guard, who, surprisingly, doesn’t push it further. When he’s adequately certain that he’s stabilized Sylvain, he retreats to his collections of vials and syringes and fills one to the brim with a sedative.

He doesn’t wait for Sylvain to wake up. That would be...it would just be too much. He approaches the man who he probably suspects is no longer his friend and injects the contents into Sylvain’s bloodstream.

Moons blur and fade away, and during that time, his only visitor is Hubert. Linhardt works himself down to the bone to keep Sylvain alive while still continuing his research. Every now and then, he has a fantasy about maybe waking Sylvain up, and loosening his bonds, and the two of them escaping this hell together. But he knows he wouldn’t get away with it, and every time he considers it, his scars start to ache, bad, and that stops him right in his tracks. In his predicament, the greatest act of rebellion he _can_ get away with is keeping Sylvain tied to this mortal coil—which for some reason, feels like more a necessity than anything. Linhardt knows that, if he lets Sylvain die, a part of him will die too. And there’s only so much magic can do to keep someone from dying when you spend every day dissecting them.

Death was never the scary part before. Now it’s terrifying. Now he has so much more to lose.

He thinks a lot about Sylvain’s reaction to seeing him. He had been so completely shocked to see Linhardt. If Linhardt wasn’t sure about whether or not they thought he was still alive, he is now.

***

It is late into the night when he hears the screams for the first time. They are faint, distant, but he’s become something of a light sleeper lately and they are loud enough to rouse him.

He sits upright slowly, staring out the window of his lab, and sees the unmistakeable glow of flames. 

Suddenly Linhardt is wide awake, and he pulls himself together enough to run to the window. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but a million emotions swerve through his brain upon seeing the chaos outside the palace. Kingdom and Alliance and Almyran flags, relentlessly advancing through the streets of the capital. He’s been dreading and awaiting this moment all at once—the war has finally come to Enbarr.

He glances over his shoulder. His guards are gone entirely, the door partly ajar. The attack must have been so sudden that even his guards were called away. Sylvain lies, unconscious and forgotten, on the table, oblivious that his friends are here to save him. They’ve been abandoned—to be captured, or killed, or...

_This is it. This_ _is your only chance._

Linhardt realizes, as the battle outside ensues, that he has two options. He can stay here and die, for real this time—or he can run away and be forgotten forever, this time of his own volition.

That second choice sounds so welcoming in this moment, so foreign, so _free—_

He knows what he has to do.

He changes quickly into lighter robes, tying his hair tight out of the way. In a small satchel, he packs a few books and elixirs—he can’t think of anything else to take that he can’t find down the road. Nothing here is his—nothing here is of any sentimental value.

All that’s left is Sylvain. He can’t bring him with—after all, the Blue Lions will undoubtedly be looking for their comrade, and Linhardt is probably unwelcome in such a situation. But he does grab a surgical blade and cut through the man’s restraints, and though he’s not a very strong person, he manages to drag Sylvain’s insensate body over to the cot.

“I’m sorry,” Linhardt mutters, probably to Sylvain but he thinks a little to that other girl too. He wishes he could do more. He’ll never do enough to make up for it, which is a big part of why his only option is to go. Hopefully he doesn’t run into anyone else when he runs. He considers putting the blade down—but for the first time in his life, some part of him is terrified of not having a weapon. Magic wasn’t enough to protect him last time, so at least now, he can be prepared.

Then he leaves.

The palace halls are empty, save for the occasional battalion or servant scurrying around. Everything is abandoned. Linhardt sneaks in and out of rooms to avoid detection, swiping any gold he finds. Leaving Fódlan will be expensive—because of course he has to leave Fódlan. He can’t stay here, not if there’s a chance of seeing people he knows, of being recognized as a dead man walking, or of being seen as an Empire sympathizer. Maybe he’ll go somewhere quiet, somewhere nice. He wonders if Petra would let him stay in Brigid for a while. Come to think of it, he wonders if Petra is even alive. She hasn’t brought him dinner in a while. Did she die at Gronder?

Well, there’s no use thinking about her. It’s probably better if he leaves on his own.

He sneaks out a servants’ passageway—back when he had been in the capital by choice, he’d discovered that nobody would look for him there. As the passageway lets out into the streets of Enbarr, he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the noxious stench of smoke. He coughs quietly into his sleeve. The voices and screams have become so much louder, and now he can hear the fire smoldering, and he can hear the clash of metal on metal from a thousand different directions.

Suddenly a burst of adrenaline surges through him, and with it comes panic. He _hates_ this feeling. This is why he avoids battle. This heightened sense of awareness, of alertness, an inability to stop for a single second. He needs to get away from the battle, the cacophony. Linhardt grips his blade, takes a tight breath, and warps himself as many streets away from the noise as he possibly can. The exertion leaves him winded and he collapses against the nearest wall, coughing and gasping.

“ _You!_ ”

Linhardt’s head whips around and he fires without thinking, a burst of wind at the source of the voice, but Felix nimbly ducks under it and slams Linhardt back against the wall hard enough that his ears ring. There’s a fury in Felix’s eyes that Linhardt has never seen before, and it sends his heart hammering overtime. The blade is ripped from his hand and tossed to the ground.

“F-Felix, pl—“

He’s silenced by Felix’s forearm up against his throat, choking his words off. “Of _course_ you’re here,” he spits, and panic spikes through Linhardt’s body. “You must have given that woman the information she needed to ambush our cavaliers, there’s no other explanation.”

“No, no, I-I...” A thought occurs to him. “Cavaliers. S—Syl—“ Linhardt drags in a desperate gasp for air. “ _Sylvain,_ h-he’s in the palace, they brought...brought him here...”

Felix’s eyes widen and he releases Linhardt sharply, letting him slide down the wall. Linhardt always viewed Felix as someone who was an expert at hiding his true feelings, but even Linhardt can see the relief in Felix’s eyes. “Where?” he whispers.

“The research wing,” Linhardt coughs, massaging his throat. “He...he’s in one of the labs there, I don’t remember which one but he’s...s-safe and unguarded, you can get to him through the servant tunnels.”

Felix snatches his sword off the dusty ground and sprints away without another word. He leaves Linhardt on his knees, fighting off the adrenaline rush. If Felix had tried to kill him there, he would have been able to do it effortlessly. Hopefully Felix will think back on him with gratitude for pointing him towards Sylvain, and if Linhardt runs into him again he won’t have to deal with that unbearably painful chokehold again. Gah, Felix is so fucking strong, it’s ridiculous. Linhardt’s head is spinning—but he doesn’t have time to wait for it to return to normal, so he picks up his little knife and stumbles away. If he can run into Felix, he can run into anyone.

His theory is proven right when he hears the thundering of soldiers coming his way. He drags himself through a nearby doorway and ducks behind it as a wave of people rush past—and to his horror yet again, he _recognizes_ them. Mercedes is supporting Ashe on one arm and healing him with the other as they stumble by, followed by Ashe’s wyvern, all their batallions, Lysithea of all people, the Professor, and _Caspar._

Linhardt’s heart stops as the blue-haired boy—man? Does Caspar count as an adult human, considering how he’s stubborn and reckless and impulsive and immature and still somehow shorter than Linhardt despite his noticeable growth spurt? Whatever, anyway, Caspar charges past the doorway, and despite knowing it’s a stupid idea, Linhardt pokes his head a little further out for a better look. 

Caspar looks so exhausted. Has he been sleeping properly? He knows there have been some bad storms lately, has Caspar been handling the weather okay? Is he hurt at all—well, actually, that’s a stupid question, because here they are, in the middle of a fucking _war._ But have Mercedes and Annette and the other healers been taking care of him the way he likes? They probably don’t know the secret to getting Caspar to take medicine—you have to trick him by daring him to do it, he’ll do anything to prove how brave he is, even drink a tonic that tastes like death. And hopefully they’ve been keeping watch over him as he dealt with that nasty break in his right leg, and did they make sure he let it heal correctly, so as not to get in the way of his fighting? Has he been doing alright with the other Blue Lions? If they found Lysithea, does that mean they also fought or allied with Claude and the Deer? And they must have fought through the outskirts of the city too, did they run into any of their former Black Eagles classmates? Did Caspar fight any of them at Gronder? 

_Does he miss me?_

There’s an explosion a few streets away and Linhardt suddenly jumps, his action shoving the door open with a crash—and as he does, every passing soldier turns toward him.

“Imperial spy!” someone cries, at the exact same moment the Professor shouts, “Linhardt?!”

His body moves before he can process what’s happening. Byleth lunges towards Linhardt and he stumbles back inside, pulling the door shut and slamming the reinforcing bar down before Byleth can force it open. As the door is slammed, the room is blanketed in pitch darkness, save for the terribly faint orange glow of the fiery remains of Enbarr—and suddenly, he sees his old cell, the room where he was tortured, and the shadows on the walls cast by a single lantern as he choked to death but didn’t die. 

“He’s a spellcaster, don’t let him get away!”

Oh no. 

Terror seizes his heart like a vice. He needs to leave, this is bad, this is very bad. This is feeling too much like before, like— He needs to leave. He’s such a fucking idiot, he shouldn't have stayed to get a look, he should have just ran the second he saw a familiar face. At the very least, the door should net him a few seconds. 

He prepares to warp himself as far away as possible when it happens. “—no. _No,_ ” he stutters, as his prepared magic flickers in his hands, a match unable to light. He tries another spell. Another. _Another._ Nothing. He’s been Silenced again, it’s happening again. “No, _please_ , no, not this, please—”

“Linhardt!” A bang on the door has him collapse against the far wall, sliding to the floor as he fumbles to hold the knife in his hand and simultaneously disappear through the wall. His stomach sinks as he recognizes the worry in the Professor’s voice. “Linhardt, let us in or I’m going to break down the door.”

“St-stay away,” Linhardt stammers. It’s all he can manage—he can’t even be sure they heard him. It’s happening again, why is it happening again? “Please, just—just let me _leave, please_.”

There’s a beat. “I can’t do that. You’re my student.”

Linhardt was Hubert’s classmate too. That never stopped Hubert.

“Allow me,” Lysithea says, and Linhardt has to turn away as a torrent of dark magic rips the door from its hinges. Byleth storms into the room and stops just past the doorway, followed shortly by the others and then Caspar, whose face is split with a hopeful grin, absolutely blinding, and it’s so authentic and wholesome and sweet and _terrifying_ and Linhardt so badly wants to escape this hell. This is torture all over again. 

“I—Lin.” Caspar’s eyes flit around him, in disbelief, in shock, in hope. “Holy shit. It really _IS_ you! I can’t fucking believe it, where—“

Caspar takes a step forward and Linhardt instinctively holds the knife higher. A sane part of him knows that they pose no threat to him, but that part’s not in control right now. He may be trapped here with all these people he can’t possibly defeat, but at least he’s not defenseless this time. “Stay. _Back.”_

“...Linhardt?” The confused note in Caspar’s voice as his smile falls breaks Linhardt’s heart all over again, a million times, in a million pieces. 

“Caspar, look at him.” Lysithea’s eyes narrow as she stares at Linhardt, like she can see right through him. “He’s malnourished, injured, and scared out of his mind. I’d guess he’s been a prisoner for a while...”

“Since he disappeared,” Byleth completes.

Mercedes gasps softly. “You poor thing! Here, let me help you—”

“No!” he snaps, turning the blade towards her now as she attempts to get closer. The magic disappears from her hands. He doesn’t want someone else to fix him without his permission, not again, not _ever_ again. “Don’t heal me, don’t—I-I don’t want it, please, just lift the Silence and let me _go!_ ”

“They took you,” Caspar says suddenly, and Linhardt shrinks away at the words—because Caspar says it like it’s a _realization_ , like he didn’t know, like he didn’t look for Linhardt, like he assumed he was dead. “They— _the Empire_ kidnapped you. They made you come back, and they hurt you and then they fixed you right back up and did it again, didn’t they?”

Linhardt’s hands are shaking now, and the quiet in the room is both deafening and infinite as Caspar takes another step forward. “ _Please_ ,” he pleads again, his words barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry, please, let me go.”

“Lin, take a deep breath. You’re safe, you don’t have to go anywhere. Everything’s...e-everything’s gonna be fine, alright?” Slowly, deliberately, Caspar crouches to the ground and places his axe at his side. He rises carefully, his expression determined as he takes another step forward, hands raised in a show of looking nonthreatening. Linhardt wants to tell him to fuck off and leave him alone.

“You didn’t come for me,” Linhardt says instead. He feels tears spring to his eyes and does nothing to stop them, instead focusing his energy on holding the blade out. “Y-you, Caspar, you said we’d always have each other’s backs, and you _didn’t come for me_.”

Caspar’s eyes are glistening wetly as he gets closer still, kneeling in front of Linhardt. “I-I know. I failed you, I-I fucked up so bad and I couldn’t save you from getting taken, but you still—” Caspar’s words choke in his throat for a moment. “I—I’m so proud of you, man.”

“... _Proud_?” he echoes. Linhardt feels his grip slip on the knife at that, feels his tears start to pour out now. “Why?”

Caspar reaches up slowly and grabs the blade, easing it out of Linhardt’s fingers and tossing it behind him. His hands linger on Linhardt’s, and his are shaking just as bad. “You _ran_. You didn’t have to leave the palace, you could have fallen to your fears and you could have stayed, you could have sided with the Empire and fought us as we invaded the city, or you could have let the army tear through the palace with you still in it, but you chose to _run_ instead _._ You ran _home_ —you came back to me, and you’re the most courageous person I know, a-and I—I missed you _so much_ —”

Caspar abruptly grabs Linhardt’s shoulders and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and Linhardt can only hold back his own sobs for a moment before he wraps his arms desperately around his best friend. His fingers dig into Caspar’s cape as he holds onto his lifeline, the beacon he lost sight of what feels like a millennium ago.

“We thought you were dead. Hubert said he _killed_ you, Lin—“

“I’m sorry,” Linhardt chokes out. “H-he tried, but Edelgard, she—they made me—“

“Shut up! Don’t—“ and now Caspar’s crying too, ugly, sniffly tears into Linhardt’s shoulder— “Don’t you _EVER_ get kidnapped again, Linhardt von fucking Hevring!“

“I won’t,” Linhardt hiccups. “I-I promise.“

“Promise?”

“I—”

“ _Promise!!”_

“ _Yes_ , y-yes, I promise,” he says, and somehow, Linhardt laughs. He hasn’t laughed in so long. It feels like a new language.

“That’s not funny!”

“Caspar,” Byleth interrupts, and the two of them look up from the floor at their teacher. The others have all left, and Byleth seems happy. “I’ll leave you two here with a battalion and return for you both when the day is won. I trust I can leave Linhardt in your capable hands?”

Caspar beams again, and this time, Linhardt can’t help but smile as well as he puts a hand over Caspar’s mouth and answers instead.

“Don’t worry. We’re not going anywhere.”

**Author's Note:**

> i can't write anything without both making it hurt and making it end soft


End file.
